Just a Friendly Game of Chess
by J.D. Finck
Summary: A future day... New York, Central Park. On a beautiful spring day, two old acquaintances meet. One is a man of style and elegance, and sinister black mirth; the other man, quiet and strong, is weary from a long life of duty and sacrifice. Beneath the surface of their quiet game of chess a battle of wits is waged...along with the age-old contest of good vs evil. (part 1 of 3)
1. Chapter 1

Just a Friendly Game of Chess

(an original story based on characters owned by Marvel Comics)

New York City,

A future time…

The sky was blue and clear, dotted with fluffs of downy white cloud. The air smelled fresh, carrying on its breeze the inviting scent of flowers. The grass was green, the trees were in bud, and all around the sounds of life could be heard. Central Park was an oasis in the heart of the great city. For generations, New Yorkers have been coming here, seeking a moment of peace in their hectic lives. Today was no different. There were people everywhere; walking the paths, picnicking under the shade of maple and cherry trees, and sitting quietly on park benches. There were young lovers walking hand in hand, joggers dashing by, and families strolling together. It was a perfect vision of spring, and on most any other day, Steve would have taken enjoyment in its beauty. But this was not any other day. His purpose today was altogether different.

Steve straightened his posture, drawing up his shoulders as he continued down the path. He was lean and fit, and if one were to judge solely by his broad physique, one might think him to be a man of fifty, an aging athlete. He was dressed casually, beige pants, a crisp white button-down shirt, and a tan jacket. He cut a fine figure, his pace neither hurried nor leisurely. There was a quiet purpose to his gait. As he rounded the corner, a young boy ran headlong into Steve. The child fell down, losing his grip on the balloons in his left hand, and the ice cream cone in his right. Steve quickly reached out, catching the cone first, then snagging the string before the colorful raft of balloons could float away.

"Wow!" the boy exclaimed. "That was fast!"

Steve smiled and helped the boy to his feet. A young woman came running over.

"Danny! I've told you about running around like that," she said, bending to dust the seat of the boy's trousers. She looked up at Steve, a sheepish smile on her face. "I'm so sorry. Are you all right, sir? I hope my son didn't hurt you."  
Steve smiled, chuckling a little. "Not at all." He handed the treasures back to the little boy. "Here you go, Danny."

"Thanks, mister. Gosh, you sure move fast for such an old man," he said, taking an enormous lick out of his ice cream. His mothers face went crimson.

"Danny! That was very rude! You apologize right this instant."  
Steve laughed. "Oh, that's all right, ma'am. I wouldn't want Danny to get into trouble for telling the truth. I am pretty old."

Steve ran a hand through his short, grey hair, demonstrating the truth of Danny's statement. His face broke into an agreeable pattern of fine wrinkles as he smiled. He was handsome, and his features were strong, somehow at odds with his obvious age. Under his snowy brows, his eyes were clear and blue, indicating a mind that was still sharp. The woman asked again if he was all right, and Steve nodded, saying that he was. He watched as mother and child, hand in hand, walked away. It was a heartwarming sight, and for a moment, it almost made him forget why he had come here today.

Then, a familiar old voice spoke, reminding him.

"Ah, Steven. Still playing the hero I see, even in your dotage. You just can't help yourself, can you, old friend?"

The skin on the back of Steve's neck prickled at the sound of that voice. It was ancient, but strong, with a small rasp to it like stone dragged across cold iron. It had a lilt that was almost charming in its theatricality, a hint of culture, a remnant of Old Bavaria. Steve turned around slowly, looking for the owner of the voice, and he found him, just off the path. He walked over to where the man was sitting; a small table, in the shade of a towering grove of maple and birch trees. It was beautifully scenic…but in the center of it, there laid a heart of darkness.

Steve nodded at his old acquaintance.

"Hello, John."

"Steven. Sit, please. I've taken the liberty of setting up the board," he said, spreading his gloved hands over the chessboard. "I do so enjoy these little games of ours."

Steve took his seat, looking the board over intently. "What color do you want?"

A small bark of laughter escaped from John's lips. "Your humor is in good form today. Let us not tamper with a winning formula, shall we? I will take black, old friend."

"Since there's no red or blue, I guess I'll take white," Steve replied.

John smiled at that. His smile was a rictus. He looked older than Steve did. He looked older than time itself. There was something off about him, something about his skin that seemed incorrect, somehow. He was bald, and his cheeks were sunken, almost skeletal. People sensed something wrong as soon as they walked past. They shuddered, as if they had just entered a pocket of cold air, a remnant of winter's icy grip. Passers-by who spotted John only looked his way for a moment. They quickly turned and hurried off, not understanding their haste. Those who met his eyes felt their blood go cold, although they could not say why. '_He's just a harmless old man_,' they thought.'_What's there to be afraid of?_' But they were afraid, those who met his eyes. They went home troubled in mind, and if they slept at all, their dreams were fitful.

John broke the silence. "The first move is yours, Steven.

Steve looked his old acquaintance steady in the eye and moved his first piece. John appeared unimpressed, and he sniffed, haughtily.

"Pawn to d4? I see that you are feeling cautious today. You usually start with fire."

"There's a time to be cautious."  
"And a time to be bold." A chill smile creased John's face as he moved his hand to the board. "But…I should like to keep this a friendly game. For the time being. Pawn to d5."

Steve sighed. "Is it really necessary to call out our moves? I thought this was a friendly game."  
"As you wish."

Steve made his next move, and John followed. After Steve's third move, his opponent sat quietly for a time, studying the board.

"If you are employing the Queen's Gambit, you are going about it in a curious fashion." Steve made no reply, so John made his counter move, and then he quickly looked up. "Where are my manners? I have not yet wished you a happy birthday."

"We've been through this before. Today is not my birthday."

John waved his hand, dismissively. "Bah. The day in which some inconsequential woman squeezed you from her womb is irrelevant. This is the day of your _true_ birth. You were born in a laboratory, and your _true _parent was Erskine."

Steve put his elbows on the small wrought iron table, and he clasped the fingers of each hand together. The expression on his face was even-tempered, but his fingers flushed red with the effort of restraint.

"If you want this day to remain pleasant," he said quietly, "then I suggest you don't mention my mother again. Not ever."

John bowed his head. "My apologies, I meant no offense. I am sure that she was a wonderful woman, who baked you apple pies and tucked you into bed each night, with kisses of perfect tenderness. As for my own mother, she was a drunken whore. My father was a brute, and he beat her mercilessly. Although she was indeed a whore, I loved my mother and I would try to protect her. Then he would beat me. It was scandalous. No doubt, my father would have been tried and convicted for his crimes…had not _his_ father been Burgermeister of our small village. On my sixteenth birthday, I killed him and left for Berlin. My mother gave me a thousand marks to help me on my way. Money she no doubt earned through hard labor on her back with her knees spread wide. So, you see, I too, have a high regard for the station of motherhood."

Steve looked at John with a cold expression. He moved his knight into play. "People have it tough all over, Schmidt…"

"Smith, please. I prefer my American name, Steven."

"A rose by any other name?"

John laughed at that remark, and Steve went on. "My point, John, is that a lot of people have it rough. Is that supposed to be an excuse for the way you turned out?"

"Whatever on earth makes you think I wish to excuse how I turned out?"

"Common decency?"  
John laughed. "Commonness and decency, two things for which I have no concern." He moved his bishop. "I am utterly uncommon, Steven, as are all men of greatness. You yourself are uncommon. Much though you pretend otherwise. No, I make no 'excuses', and why should I? I rose to the pinnacle of power in my first incarnation…"

"And you were defeated."

"And I rose again. As did you. We are Phoenixes, you and I."

"Speak for yourself. I'm perfectly happy being human," Steve said. He put his second knight into play.

"Hmm. You are leaving a gap in your center. Are you trying to coax my Queen into play?"

"There's one way to find out," Steve said, keeping his expression stone.

"Ah, Steven, what a gamesman you are! In all these past years that we have met to play, it is obvious to me that you have never studied the game. You play on instinct alone, and on native wit. Yet still you are formidable. I suspect, had you put your mind to it, that you could have achieved the rank of Grandmaster."

"Like you, you mean?"

"You know about that? About my other identity?"

"You have several. Or you did have, when you were younger. And yes, I know."

John smiled. "Oh, that pleases me. I suppose it sounds egotistical, but I am quite proud of my achievements. My win over Askarov in the 29 championship was my proudest victory. Other than besting you, of course."

"It's a game, Smith. That's all. I've known chess masters who couldn't walk and chew gum at the same time."

John erupted into laughter, clapping his calf-skinned gloved hands together. The sound was like bones clinking against velvet.

"How very true! And we have both known heads of state that could do no better. I know at least two of them who sat in the Oval Office"

"I once knew of one who presided in Germany."

"Again, very true."

"Oh?" Steve fixed John with a piercing gaze.

"Steven, you wound me. Do you suppose that I still carry water for the Fuhrer? No, my friend, he was an imbecile of the first rank…and, yes, a savant, with flashes of brilliance. But mostly an imbecile." John grew pensive. "If Hitler had had a trifle less genius, and a touch more competence, we would have won the war. We almost did, anyway."

John fell silent for a moment. "Oh, this _is_ embarrassing…I have quite forgotten what we were talking about."

"Chess," Steve said. "And your views on military brilliance."

"Quite so. Forgive an old man, whose mind wanders. I am certain that you can relate?" John grinned wickedly at Steve. "Yes, mastery of chess require a particular brilliance—a strategic and tactical insight that sets one apart."

"If you say so."

"I do. I wonder if you knew that I often used to play against Rommel?"

Steve shook his head 'no'.

"Ah. It is nice that I can still surprise you. Yes, the General and I played on several occasions. Like you, he was also unschooled, relying on his innate military brilliance to carry him through. He was a tough match. I always fancied the idea of playing Churchill. He was a cunning old pig; I imagine he would have been good."

"Churchill was out of your league, in every possible way. It's your move, John."

John quieted, studying the board. Twice, he went to move his Queen. Twice he held back, searching his opponent's eyes, but finding no clues. He finally decided on advancing a pawn instead. After, he reached into the pocket of his overcoat (heavy black suede, despite the warm day), and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He went to light one, but paused, and turned to Steve.

"I'm sorry, do you mind?"

"By all means, smoke the whole pack."

John chortled. "Yes, they are bad me, I know. But at our age, one can throw caution to the wind, no?"

"No," Steve answered.

"Come Steven, be reasonable, and loosen up. After all, you are one hundred and fifty-five years old. You should live a little. Hmm…or are you only ninety-five? It gets confusing, with all those years you spent on ice. How old do you say that you are?"

"Ninety-five seems most accurate. I didn't really age in cryo-freeze."

"There are some who say that we have hardly aged at all. On the surface, yes, but inside, we are healthier than most men of thirty. The serum in our veins works wonders, does it not?"

John took a puff on his cigarette, and coughed a little. Steve smiled.

"Keep smoking those and hopefully things will turn around."

"I will. Unlike you, I have faith in Erskine's concoction. I plan to see the next century. Longer, if I can arrange it."

John tapped his ashes off to the side, and then brought the cigarette up. He paused, examining it in thought.

"What was it you GI's called them?" After a moment, his face brightened in glee. "Yes, yes, I have it. Coffin nails!" John laughed long and loud. The sound seemed to come from some deep cavern inside of him. He laughed until the momentum of it petered out, and then he spoke.

"How wonderfully gauche you Americans were. Are. You invent the very best slang in the world. It is your chief contribution to world culture."

"Don't forget the hula-hoop."

"You jest," John said, taking a draw on the cigarette. "I do not. Slang is far and away America's crowning achievement. It is the thing for which history will remember you. Along with the music you stole from your slaves. Yes; slang, Jazz, and Rock-n-Roll. Can you 'dig it', man?"

It was Steve's turn to laugh. The sound of it was a bitter indictment. "And yet you choose to live here."

"But of course. America is Rome. The power is here. When it ceases to be, I will move on."

"Your hubris is breathtaking," Steve said, smiling broadly at his chess companion "America won't stay on top forever, no nation does. But she'll be running along just fine long after you've gone to dust, Johann. Forgive me, John."

"I forgive you, Steven. I forgive you for all but your lack of vision. That I cannot forgive, for you should know better. I will never die."

"Doctors call that a God Complex. Are you God now?"

"Why not? Someone has to do it."

Steve laughed again. "Somehow I just can't picture you in heaven."

"All right, hell, then," John said, tossing his head angrily. "Read your Milton, Steven _It is better to rule in hell,_ _than to serve in heaven_. I shall topple Satan from his throne, and rename his kingdom Valhalla. My vision will see me to it. My will-to-power will carry me aloft. And mankind will bow its collective knee to my radiance."

The two old men sat there for a moment, regarding each other in silence. Slowly, an impish grin began to curl itself around Johan Schmidt's lips.

"Well, after all, Steven…a man must have his dreams."

A second moment of silence descended. The world around them seemed to take little note of the two old men; birds sang, children played, people ambled. The two men continued their silent appraisal of one another as seconds ticked into minutes. Then, abruptly, John glanced at the board, and then looked up.

"I grow thirsty. What do you say we call time and go seek refreshment? I should think our board will be safe and sound until we return."

Steve thought. "I could do with a little something."

"Good," John said. He rose, taking a slender black walking stick that he had leaned against the table, and then smoothed the slight crease in his trousers. "Savile Row," he said. He stopped and considered Steve's attire. "JC Penny?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact. They have a nice selection and the senior discount is excellent."

John smiled and extended his hand out towards the brick path. "I might suggest age before beauty, but where would that get us? After you, Steven."

With Steve Rogers taking the lead, the two old acquaintances walked out into thronging crowd of Central Park.


	2. Chapter 2

Morning had turned into afternoon when Steve Rogers and John Smith set out to find refreshment. Central Park was alive with the sounds of happy people enjoying a tranquil spring day. It was Saturday, and the weekend infused a kind of holiday spirit, which all the park-goers felt. The two elderly-looking men, of long acquaintance with one another, made their way through the crowd. They seemed, at first glance, to be perfectly ordinary men...but then, first glances are often deceiving.

Steve was tall, and he was dressed inconspicuously. He had a full head of silvery-grey hair, and ruggedly handsome features. Although his face displayed age of significant years, his body was fit and strong. Despite the soundness of his body, there was a look of weariness about the man, as if long duty and toil had left their mark. His eyes portrayed a sense of deep loss and sadness. Even so, people seemed to take a measure of comfort from him as they walked past, with feelings of home and hearth banked deep in their hearts. They felt security upon seeing him, and a trust rewarded by hope. All these things they felt without even knowing why. The man himself seemed not to notice the effect his quiet strength inspired in others.

The other man was altogether different. Not so tall as his companion, but tall nonetheless. His attire was elegant, and of obvious expense. The fabrics he wore were all black, expect for his pearl-white shirt and silken red tie, which spilled from his desiccated neck like a gush of blood. His posture was perfectly straight, almost painfully so. The flesh on his bones was spare, yet despite this, there was no weakness inherent in his form. Indeed, there was strength there, deep and abiding. Intelligence, cruel and swift, danced behind the veil of his eyes. He was bald, and his face gave the impression of flint dipped in wax, painted to approximate skin. Whereas other men of a certain age had wrinkles, he had crevasse. Him mouth was a gash. When he smiled, which he did often, it seemed as if he were in on some secret joke; a jest directed against all humanity. Unlike his companion, he was perfectly aware of the effect he had on those around him. He reveled in it.

After walking a short spell, they came across a concession stand. Stepping up to the register, Steve ordered first.

"I'll take a lemonade."

The proprietor nodded, and turned to the well-dressed man in dark. "What can I get for y…" he just then truly noticed the man, and his words froze in his throat.

John smiled. "I shall take a Coca-Cola, my good man. Super sized, if you please."

John insisted on paying, and he included a generous tip. Soon, the two men were again walking, sipping at their beverages as they went. They paused upon discovering a group of children playing baseball, and they stopped awhile to watch. After a time, John pointed toward the field of play.

"That pitcher has ability. Did you notice the drop he has on his sinker?"

Steve nodded.

"As I recall from your dossier, you played baseball in your youth, yes?"

"Every American boy played baseball when I was a kid."

"Yes, yes, the 'Great American Pastime', I know…but you excelled at the game, did you not? Like that boy."

"I was okay."

John shook his head and tisked. "Must you always be so modest? You needed try so hard to hide your light, Steven. You were a gifted athlete. Scholastically, you excelled. You were born to be exceptional, yet you play it off, as if you are embarrassed by that fact."

"I was sickly as a young man."

"Yes, after Polio struck you down. It cheated you, Steven, robbed you of your true self, by taking your strong body and making it weak. Erskine's serum gave it back to you. It did not _make_ you exceptional…for you already _were_ exceptional. It was the same with me. I was born for greatness. The potion merely unlocked what was already there, in both of us."

John swept his hand out across the grassy field, where dozens of people were at play.

"Look at them, Steven. The common herd. Take any one of them—take _**all**_ of them—and inject Erskine's serum into their veins. Do you honestly think any of them would become as you or I? Champions? Conquerors? Admit it; you know they would not, for at heart, they are not like us. They are ordinary."

Steve sighed. "You've always had disdain for the ordinary man. But it was ordinary men and women who fought and won the war. Are there things I can do that others can't? Yes. But it doesn't set me above them. I'm proud to call myself a human being, and 'ordinary' is no insult to me."

"Fah! How can I talk to you if you insist on clinging to such silly mythology?" The German accent in John's voice grew stronger as he spoke. "Do you actually believe the propaganda they created for you? The ninety-pound weakling? The 'aw shucks' image of the simple, ordinary everyman-turned hero? That was all a lie, and you know it. They neglected to tell the public of your genius level IQ, or the exceptional physical specimen you were _before_ illness laid you low. Not one man in ten-million could match your drive, your determination, your iron will power. _THAT_ is what made you Captain America. So spare me the Gary Cooper modesty."

"Actually, I was always more of a Jimmy Stewart fan."

John snickered, and then he laughed heartily. He turned and bowed to Steve. "Have it your own way. If it makes you feel better to pretend to be common, so be it."

The two of them returned to the path and resumed their pace. John used his walking stick flamboyantly, for he clearly did not need its assistance to ambulate. With his free hand, he lifted his cup.

"Ah," he said, taking a large slurp. "I love Coca-Cola."

"First baseball, now Coke. I didn't know you were such a fan."

"Oh, but I am. I love all things American."

"What about freedom?" Steve asked. "What's your opinion on that?"

John laughed. "Overrated. Besides, American's love freedom no more than do any others in this world. Which is to say, they love it not at all. It is the _illusion_ of freedom that you Yankees love. That is why your people love Coca-Cola so much."

John held the paper cup up for display. "Is there anything more perfectly American than this beverage? It rots the teeth, corrodes the arteries, bloats the stomach, and yet it is so sweetly addictive that you just can't get enough of it. It is an _illusion_ of a beverage…and that, my friend, is America. And I love it so."

John drained the remainder of his drink in one mighty draught, vacuuming the dregs loudly with the straw before tossing the refuse into a near-by trashcan. He then returned to his theme.

"You see, it is merely the _illusion_ of freedom that American's revere…but deep down in their secret hearts, what your people truly crave is for someone to guide them, to think for them, to protect and nurture them. They long for an iron hand to set them on the path of true freedom…the freedom from responsibility. They tire of your false ideals of liberty. What your people want, Steven, is Coca-Cola! Throw in some pornography and simpleminded diversion, and they will follow you anywhere."

"I'd call your assessment shallow," Steve answered, "but that would be an insult to shallowness."

John looked aghast.

"Have you not seen the most popular programs on the inter-vision these days? Game shows! Professional Wrestling! Scripted dreck passed off as reality programming! And you have the gall to call that freedom? It is a sham! You are too hard on your people, Steven, asking them to be free, and to think for themselves. I ask only that they obey. This is why I long ago gave up the pointless idea of military conquest. The real war is the war of ideas, and my ideas are winning. Check the web, you will find ten thousand sites for fascism. More come every week. Strain your ears but a little, and you can hear the sound of boots marching in the streets. In the end, your people will follow me, because I know them better than you ever will. Captain America indeed!"

John stood stock-still after completing his tirade, watching Steve closely, searching for some reaction to his words. Steve quietly finished his lemonade. He gently tossed the empty cup away.

"You have a snappy line of B.S. for every subject under the sun, don't you, John? It makes me wonder if you stay up late at night thinking this garbage up."

"Would it surprise you if I said that I did?" John said, laughing. "Oh, I am a shameless performer, I know. But after all, did not the Bard say '_all the worlds a stage, and we are merely players_'?"

"As usual, you have it half-right," Steve said. "The line goes, '_all the worlds a stage, and all the men and women are merely players_.' Shakespeare then goes on to mention that everyone has a time to enter and a time to exit."

Steve leveled a hard stare at his companion. "The problem with you, John—and this is only one of many, mind you—is your rampant ego. You hog the stage, and you ignore all the signs that the audience has tired of your act. You tried selling your hokum, and nobody bought it. You tried forcing it on them, and they fought you. Now you're trying to disguise it…but they'll just find you out all over again. The plain truth, John, is that you've been rejected. The curtain's been dropped and the lights are off. But like all corny hacks, you just don't know when to leave the stage, do you? You say you love America so much, and yet you don't seem to know the one thing that we American's find more pathetic than anything else…a has-been."

John Smith faded from sight, and Johan Schmidt appeared. Anger that bordered on rage that bordered on psychotic fury burned in his eyes. He shook from the roiling storm Steve had stirred within him. Steve stepped closer.

"You're good at dishing it out. That's the Nazi specialty. But the problem is that you just can't take it, can you? Take a second listen, John. It isn't boots that you hear echoing in the streets…it's the garbage man. He's here to sweep you away."

Steve Rogers and Johan Schmidt locked eyes. They stood on the edge of the path, while also standing on the edge of something far deeper and more treacherous than the eye could see. They were two old men, of long acquaintanceship, and they were yet something more. They were Harbinger and they were Guardian, a star of slivery-white, and a skull, red as a heart's blood. They were without time and beyond it, for they were ideals made flesh and flesh made spirit, standing opposite and apposite of one another; one in eternal vigilance, the other in eternal predation. The swirling crowds of humanity in the park that day walked past them completely unaware of all that transpired. All that the people saw on that day were two old men, of long acquaintanceship. For such they were.

Time resumed. The two men settled back into themselves. They turned, and silently resumed their walk. The sun moved in its trek across the sky and the afternoon shadows lengthened. Soon, the circuit that they had been walking completed itself. They were back in that shady grove of maple and birch trees, beneath which sat a chessboard.

John inclined his head towards it. "Shall we finish our game?" The usual jolly black humor was absent from his speech.

"Okay," Steve agreed. "Let's wrap it up."

They took their seats. "The move is yours, John," Steve said.

John reached for his Queen, but halted. After a moment, his hand still hovering in space, he spoke.

"Do you remember, twenty years ago, when you and I agreed on these annual meetings of ours?"

"I do."

"Do you know why I picked this particular day for which to meet?"

Steve considered. "I assume because it brings you pleasure to remark on this day being my birthday."

"No," John said. "That is not the full story. I _do_ think of this as being your birthday, the day in which the serum unlocked your true self. However, this also marks the anniversary of my own birth. For, exactly one year before Erskine transformed you in America, he did the same for me, in Germany. On the exact same day. Do you not see the meaning inherent in that fact? We share a birthday, you and I. We share the same father. I picked this day for our yearly meeting for one reason; because I wanted to meet with the only man in all the world who is my equal."

Steve's mouth went dry. John went on.

"I wanted to meet my one, true brother. _You_ are my brother, Steven."

John smiled. The Black glee had returned to his eye. He advanced his Queen. "The move is yours, Steven."


End file.
